Not That Kind of Girl

by Nia Forrester

  Platonic friends don’t hold each other like this. Liam and Kate’s torsos are facing each other, their pelvises touching. His hand is low on the back of her dress, just over a spot that is unmistakably her ass, even though the dress is a wide-skirted one. The picture looks like Kate and Liam were caught just as they were about to kiss, or hug, or were locked in a slow dance. My bet is on the first of those options, judging from look of flushed excitement on Kate’s face.

  Kate is cheating on Ian. Or … is it with Ian? Liam has five years invested after all. Then I’m outraged for Ian anyway, because I am sure he doesn’t know about this guy. He thinks he’s being a jerk by cheating on Kate with me. Meanwhile Kate is the real cheat, by hiding her longtime boyfriend and likely future husband from Ian.

  There is a single, solitary mean moment where I consider whether it wouldn’t be a good thing for Ian to find out about this. And then I dismiss it. I wouldn’t do that. Not to him, and even after everything, I wouldn’t even do it to Kate. Sighing I shove the picture back where it was and shut the drawer, taking the insurance bill with me to trudge over to find someone who has a scanner.

  I get the favor done for Kate, send her the scanned image of her insurance card and am getting dressed for my date with Ian when it occurs to me. Maybe Liam and Kate have an understanding—lots of couples do while they’re in college—that they can casually date other people until the time to settle down comes. As much as I’ve inserted myself into Kate’s personal life this weekend by sleeping with her boyfriend and snooping in her stuff well beyond the limits of her permission, none of this is my business. None of it. And at the end of the day, I couldn’t tell Ian about that picture just to break him and Kate up and hoping to benefit myself in the end.

  I’m just not that kind of girl.

  Wearing the grey maxi-dress, hoop earrings and my hair in a chignon, I’m ready waiting for Ian when he shows up precisely at five. I told him to call me from downstairs because I don’t want people to see us walking out together looking dressed up. And anyway, he doesn’t have a car so probably came to get me in an Uber. He told me the movie we’re going to see is called ‘White Boy Rick’ and when I fell silent in disbelief, I heard him laugh on the other end of the line.

  “What?” he said. “I thought you’d like it. I mean … y’all women like Matthew McConaughey, right?”

  “Whatever, Ian,” I said. “But if we get to the theater and something better’s showing, we’re trading in our tickets.”

  But really, I don’t care what we see. When he texts to let me know he’s downstairs, I force myself not to run. And when I get outside, parked at the curb there it is. The Green Bean.

  I am laughing, almost doubled over at the waist when Ian gets out on the driver’s side, comes around and opens the door for me like a valet. Rolling my eyes, I walk toward him, pausing at the open door to give him a look.

  I never did find out who this monstrosity of a vehicle belongs to.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  He smells amazing and looks even better, wearing a bright-white ribbed t-shirt that hugs his chest and arms, chinos with all-white sneakers. And best of all, he’s wearing an earring. A small, single discreet diamond stud. Now, the thing is, I kind of dislike earrings or any kind of jewelry on men. But what I’m loving is that it’s a sign he’s dressed up. Ian dressed up for me.

  I give him one firm nod. “Ready,” I say.

  He helps me into the van by holding my hand shuts the door and when he gets in on the other side and shuts his door he leans toward me. His lips part in a small grin as he looks me over like he likes what he sees.

  “Hi,” he says, before he leans the rest of the way.

  “Hi,” I say back, just before he kisses me.

  ‘White Boy Rick’ isn’t awful. The kid who plays the title character is pretty good and Matthew McConaughey does his usual smarmy but strangely sexy spiel. Still, it’s the kind of movie Ian should have come to see with Wayne, Patrick and Kwan. When it’s over, and people begin to file out, he puts a hand on my knee to keep me in my seat so we can wait out the crowd.

  Looking over at me he shakes his head and grimaces. “Sorry,” he says.

  I laugh. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t terrible. And yeah, McConaughey made the taste of the material go down a little easier.”

  “The taste of the material,” Ian repeats. He nods, adopting a mien and tone that could easily pass as one of our professors. “Say more about that.”

  “A sixteen-year-old white kid becomes a drug dealer and it’s worth an entire movie to explain his extenuating circumstances? But a Black kid becomes a drug dealer and …” I shrug. “Just another Saturday night in America, I guess. Where’s that movie?”

  “Actually, I could name ten movies just like that right off the top of my head,” Ian says.

  I look at him. “Okay. So you have a point. But …”

  “Nah, there’s no ‘but’. You tried it, but your thesis is weak. Let’s go eat.”

  I roll my eyes and Ian stands, taking my hand to pull me up out of my seat. He doesn’t let it go as we leave, until we’re in the vestibule of the theater where he stands behind me and holds my waist with both hands. He isn’t touching me anywhere else, but just the idea of him, inches away excites me and I try to decide whether I’m hungry or wouldn’t just rather go right back to his place.

  But I compose myself, and we make it all the way back to the Green Bean before we wind up mauling each other right there in the front seat. It starts with a kiss that turns into a neck-nuzzle and then the dress is at my waist and a hand in my panties. In no time at all, Ian has me whimpering and thrusting my pelvis forward to meet him fingers. I’m gripping his wrist, feeling myself close to completion when he slowly removes the hand and I look at him with betrayal, my mouth still open with that last unfinished moan.

  “I don’t want you to come right now,” he says shaking his head. “‘Cause then you’ll just fall asleep on me in the restaurant.”

  “That’s just … hostile,” I say, pulling down the hem of my skirt. “Fine. Let’s go eat.”

  The restaurant is a small Thai place that smells like jasmine rice when we enter. The décor is simple and tasteful, designed to look chic and expensive, but like many places in town, suited for the modest budgets of college students. We order two appetizers, and three entrees because we can’t decide on two and I watch Ian from across the table as he watches me.

  “The more I get to know you,” he says with narrowed eyes, “the less I can see you as a mathematician.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask. I sip my green tea.

  “You’re … relational,” Ian speaks slowly, like he’s formulating the words as he speaks. “You probably fool people into thinking you’re introverted because you don’t talk a lot. But I actually think you’re an extrovert who hasn’t found her outlet yet.”

  “Or maybe I have,” I say. “But I can’t figure out how to … do it.”

  “Have you?” he asks.

  Sighing I put down my tea. “I think so.”

  “What is it? Your outlet.”

  “I want to … be a writer,” I say. I’ve never said it before. Not to anyone.

  Ian leans back in his chair as if this news floors him. But instead he nods. “I could see that.”

  “But …” I shake my head. “Not a fiction writer. And not a journalist. More like a behavioral mathematician who writes.”

  Ian’s eyes narrow further and a smile spreads across his face. “Wow,” he drawls. “Now you gon’ have to explain that one to me. What the …”

  I laugh and pick up my tea again. “You don’t have that kinda time.”

  But Ian nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. Tell me.”

  So I explain it to him.

  While our food comes out, and well into the time it takes us to eat it, I tell Ian how I want to do something like Malcolm Gladwell did—use journalism to explain the sociological, economic and other roots of human behavior. Ex
cept I want to add behavioral mathematics to my analysis, and not just to explain, but to predict human behavior.

  I don’t even notice how much I’m talking because Ian stops me sometimes, asking questions and nodding when he understands, furrowing his brow or scratching the back of his neck when he doesn’t. He isn’t impatient or bored, he doesn’t try to finish my sentences for me, or rush my thought process along. He actively listens.

  When I’m done, he’s eaten way more than I have, and I’m a little embarrassed.

  “Well, this is one for the bad date book,” I say, reaching for my fork to scoop up some rice. “I spent the entire time talking your ears off about behavioral mathematics.”

  “You could look at it like that. But the way I see it is, you told me a lot about you. Which is what I wanted to hear anyway, so …” Ian shrugs.

  “What did I tell you about me?”

  “You told me that you’re creative … because you want to write, and writers are people who want to create stories or tell the truth in story form. And now I know you’re someone who likes to know what happens next. That’s why you’re interested in predictive analytics.”

  In three sentences, he has spoken my life.

  “Let’s settle this bill,” I say looking him in eyes. “I want to go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere,” I tell him. “Anywhere I can be alone with you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I can’t stand her up,” I say, shoving Ian’s chest and trying to get out of bed. “If I do, she’ll send me some clinical sounding text message saying that making plans with me carries a high probability of disappointment and so she won’t make them anymore. And then I’ll be crushed.”

  “This friend of yours sounds kinda strange,” he says, not budging from his position atop me.

  Instead, he kisses my shoulder and I feel that familiar tingle. We did it like twice last night after we left that Thai. I should be so over it by now, all of this … amazing sex. Like that’s ever happened in the history of the world.

  “Corinne isn’t strange. She’s brilliant. Her mind just works differently than other people’s, that’s all. She’s the smartest person you’ll ever meet.”

  “So, cool. Lemme come meet her.”

  I think for a second. I don’t want to leave him because it’s Sunday, which makes tomorrow Monday. Monday means this is over. In fact, I’ve been thinking of this evening as the end, because it isn’t as though I can sleep over with Kate coming back.

  Kate. Coming back.

  “Hey.”

  I look at Ian. He’s been studying my face and probably saw my expression change—from smiling about the ridiculousness of getting tired of sex, to frowning at the thought of Kate.

  I try to smile for him, but he doesn’t buy it.

  “I been thinkin’,” he says.

  “What’ve you been thinkin’?” I say, playfully mimicking his accent.

  “That we should talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?” I feign ignorance.

  “Everything. You, me. Kate.”

  I squirm to try to get out from under him, but Ian just lowers himself onto his forearms, one on either side of my head, so I’m even more caged in now.

  “Right?” he prompts. “We should talk about it, and …”

  “No,” I say.

  “What do you mean no?”

  I press against his chest with the flats of both palms. “I mean I … Ian, I can’t … get off me, I can’t breathe,” I lie.

  He rolls off me right away and I sit up, lowering my feet to the floor.

  “So, what’s the plan then?” he asks. “We just act like …”

  “There was no plan. We knew she was coming back tomorrow.”

  I’m already looking around for my dress. It’s not on the floor, not on his loveseat. I stand, naked, and look right and left. Ian’s eyes travel over me. I don’t think he’s ever seen me fully naked in broad daylight. I’m too frantic to get out of here to care. I crouch to peer under his bed.

  “And you’re cool with that?”

  “That she’s coming back? It’s not like I have any control over that.”

  “Terri. You know what I mean.”

  I get up again. I still don’t see the stupid dress. Where is it?

  “It has to be cool with me, right? I mean, what else are we … You don’t think I’m going to just keep … sneaking around, do you?”

  “Nah,” Ian says, letting the word drag. I read anger in that drawl, even though I’m not looking at him to see it on his face. “I’m not thinking that.”

  “Then what are you thinking?” I look at him and he’s holding my dress in his hand, extending it toward me. It was someplace among the sheets.

  “I’m thinking we’d tell her,” he says.

  “No.” I’m shaking my head before he even finishes the sentence. I’m holding the dress midair. “That wasn’t … We didn’t …”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s my roommate, Ian. And she’s …”

  “My girlfriend. I know. Except now, she’s not. She can’t be. Not anymore.”

  My heart is racing. “What would that accomp …”

  “She’ll be mad as hell,” Ian speaks like he’s explaining something to a high-strung toddler. The high-strung toddler is me. “She definitely won’t want to live with you anymore. And she’ll for sure cuss me out, cuss us both out more likely. And then she’ll probably never speak to either one of us again.”

  “Exactly! And is that what you want?”

  “Nah. ‘Cause like I said, Kate’s a cool chick. But you know what I want even less than having her mad at me and never speaking to me again? For you and me to go on like before … me comin’ over there and you lookin’ at me like I’m a fuckin’ stranger.”

  Wow. Another cussword. His second in as many days.

  And now, he’s even begun to raise his voice, but just a smidge because that good, polite Southern boy inside him is holding on for dear life to the good home training that told him to never shout at a lady.

  “I feel like you … cornered me into this,” I say, pulling the dress over my head. I don’t have the presence of mind to go searching for a bra and panties right now.

  Ian’s eyes widen, and he stands. “I cornered you into this?” he says, pointing at himself. “Like how? How did I corner you?”

  As I’m straightening my dress, Ian reaches for his nearby basketball shorts and steps into them. I can’t help but think of the parallel between watching him do that now, and the way I once saw him doing the same thing as he got out of Kate’s bed. This time he’s facing me, and unashamed. This time, he’s behaving as though I have the right to see him this way. This time, I almost feel like I do.

  “You knew you weren’t going to just … You knew that …”

  “That what? That if we vibed like I thought we might, I wouldn’t want to let this go? Well shit, Terri!” Three cusswords. “Then shoot me. I want to be with you and not her. You’re right. That’s fucked up!”

  Four. It’s ridiculous to be counting at this point. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, a distraction to hold the confusion at bay. I don’t even know what’s happening anymore, or why the idea of Kate knowing about me and Ian feels so threatening. Especially since I can think of few things as bad as next few days are likely to be, watching her with her hands all over him the way she always is after even a brief separation.

  If he told her, the confrontation would be ugly; and worse if we told her together. My stomach flips at the thought of it. Just trying to figure out whether she’d be hurt, or only enraged makes me want to throw up. I don’t know which would be better.

  But after that, I’d have Ian, because that’s what he’s saying, that he wants me. He wants me, and not Kate.

  “I’m just … I need a minute, okay? I never thought you would …” I take a deep breath and shut my eyes.

  “Never thought I
would what? Take everything that happened this weekend so seriously?”

  He’s staring at me and I see another side of him. He is pissed.

  “You thought we’d screw our way through the four nights she was gone and then get back in our lanes? Is that what you wanted to do?”

  “It … it’s not like it would be first time people ever …”

  “Yeah,” Ian says. His voice is quiet again. “But I didn’t think we were just … people.”

  “Okay, I think you’re right,” I say out of desperation for the conversation to be over. “We should talk about it. But … can we just … after I go have brunch with Corinne, can I come back and we can talk then?” I shrug.

  He nods. “A’ight,” he says. “Let’s do that.”

  “Ian …” I find my shoes and pick them up. “I promise. After brunch we’ll figure it out. I just … I have to go meet Corinne.”

  Corinne is pretty. She doesn’t know what to do with her prettiness, but even if she did, she likely wouldn’t do it anyway. Instead, she fastens her voluminous thick, jet black hair with a rubber band, hides her beautiful amber eyes behind owlish glasses and her enviable figure in mom jeans and shapeless t-shirts she buys in bulk from Walmart. I used to think she was just another Math Department hipster-geek, but no, Corinne’s geekdom is one-hundred percent genuine.

  I find her sitting at the table where we always meet. Always the same one. She unfolds her napkin as she sees me approach and then, almost like an afterthought, stands to let me hug her. Corinne’s displays of affection are always cursory.

  “You’re on time,” she says, the same way the average person might say, ‘you’re late’, with a hint of reproachfulness.

  She has a philosophy, that appointment times should be considered “start times” and not the time when you show up. If your appointment is for one p.m., then you should be there at twelve forty-five, so that you can start promptly at one, when all the pleasantries and settling in confusion is out of the way.